


i'm knocking at the door

by ewidentnie



Series: live in the moment [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Toronto Blue Jays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewidentnie/pseuds/ewidentnie
Summary: "Wait," Marco says, sure that he's misheard, "do I want to what?"Luke doesn't look at him like he's an idiot, just repeats what he'd just said. "Get your dick sucked?" he says, way too casual for what he's offering.





	i'm knocking at the door

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place after the loss against atlanta on may 16th. luke got hit by a pitch against the mariners on the saturday before, and then took a foul tip in the chest like the...day after? he gets beat up a lot behind the plate, man, i can't keep track of it all.
> 
> working titles included: _the BJs BJ fic_ , _luke maile finally hit a home run_ , and _luke maile hit TWO home runs_. actual title is from arkells [knocking at the door](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQvp6EghJ18), better known as “that one blue jays budweiser beer ad song"
> 
> this is 100% fiction; anything and everything i have implied about luke maile's marriage and/or educational background is entirely false. if you got here by googling your name or someone you know please hit the back button right now.

 Luke spends so much time behind home plate, dropped into a catcher's crouch, that it's easy to forget that Luke has a good three inches on Marco. 

It's impossible to forget right now, though, not with Luke crowding Marco in against his locker. It's not in a threatening way - everything about Luke's body language right now is relaxed, but he's close enough that Marco has to look up to meet Luke's eyes. It's distracting, to the point where he misses what Luke says, and Marco has to rewind in his head while Luke just...looks at him expectantly.

"Wait," Marco says, sure that he's misheard, "do I want to what?"

Luke doesn't look at him like he's an idiot, just repeats what he'd just said. "Get your dick sucked?" he says, way too casual for what he's offering.

Marco looks around. He'd thought the clubhouse was empty - and it is, everyone else long gone because they're smart enough to know he likes having time alone to process after losses - but he's still gotta question it. "Is this a prank?" he asks, voice low, like there's gonna be someone hiding in the locker next to his eavesdropping.

Luke raises an eyebrow. "Does it look like I'm joking?" he says. He looks— tired, and sore, but completely serious about his offer. Which closes the door on one set of problems and opens an entirely new one.

"What," Marco says, incredulous, "you're serious? You're actually serious? The hell?" Every single indication he's ever gotten from Luke is that he's a wholesome, all-American kid, one that doesn't go around offering head out of the blue.

Every indication is apparently wrong.

"Rough loss," Luke says, shrugging. "You look like you need it."

"You offer to suck all the pitching staff when we lose?" Marco asks. It comes out harsher than he intends, but he doesn't mean to be rude - he doesn't know what he means to be, he's just fucking confused.

Luke laughs, even though there isn't anything funny about this, far as Marco can tell. "Just the ones I like," he says, dropping to his knees, smooth and easy, just like he's behind home plate. "C'mon, I'll make it good," he says, reassuring; the same tone he uses during visits up to the mound, the same implicit _you trust me, don't you?_  It feels kinda dirty, like Luke is desecrating the sacred art of catching by doing this, but Marco's already getting hard despite himself. He doesn't, for whatever reason, try to stop him.

"Hey, your wife know you do this?" Marco asks. A little too late; Luke's already reaching for Marco's fly by the time Marco even thinks about asking it.

"Yeah," Luke says, brow a little furrowed, like he doesn't know why Marco would even ask, "Paige is fine with it. You worried?" he asks, fingers deft on Marco's belt. "It's just getting off."

Marco wants to object - just getting off would be him and his hand, not getting head from his catcher, but his tongue feels too thick in his mouth. Luke flicks a glance up at him through his lashes and any words he might have been able to gather dissolve away.

"Yeah, no, uh, go for it," he says stupidly. "Knock yourself out." Luke just smiles - not quite a smirk, but edging on it. His fingers are careful as they pull the zip of his pants down, belt buckle already loose and jingling against his thigh. He doesn't fuck around or try to tease, just pulls out his cock, as direct as ever, leaning down to mouth at the head before taking it in, swallowing until his lips meet his fingers where they're wrapped around the shaft.

He takes his hand off, but slides his mouth down further, a little furrow of determination between his brows. It's not like he's amazing at it or anything, but it's way better than he expected from Luke and that difference is what makes it almost too much to handle all at once like this.

"Fuck," Marco says, pulling back, the head of his dick resting on Luke's tongue, "they teach you this at Rays catcher camp or what?”

Luke huffs a laugh, pulling off with a wet sound. “All-boys Catholic high school,” he says. “Sometimes, the shit they say really is true.” His voice is already starting to sound a little rough.

The words pool in his gut. He wants to— wants to get off, wants to push his cock back in over Luke's lips, wants something he doesn't know how to describe. At least some of these things are achievable, and Luke doesn't object when he goes for it, kneeling there with his mouth open like an invitation.

Luke's mouth is warm, and wet, and he lets Marco fuck into it without a complaint. He's pretty passive, actually, which is a surprise - catchers are always bossy, and even Luke's whole wide-eyed, eager-to-learn, new-kid-on-the-team shtick doesn't hide the fact that he's no different from any other catcher and therefore thinks pitchers can't do anything without instructions.

Not like he needs instructions for this, though; no directions needed to figure out how to thrust into Luke's mouth. He goes shallow on the first few strokes, not wanting to choke the kid, but Luke relaxes on each one and his throat opens up enough that the head of Marco's cock can nudge at the back of it without him gagging on it.

This is - this is way beyond blowjob territory; it's crossed the border into face-fucking. Marco would be worried that he's going too hard, but Luke's making no move to push him off, even as tears start gathering at the corners of his eyes, lashes sweeping across his cheekbones.

He thinks, wildly, the thought slamming into him out of nowhere, that Luke would probably let Marco fuck him if he asked. He's so easy for this, letting Marco thumb at the corner of Luke's mouth, swiping at the spit that's collecting there before pushing in, accommodating his finger with ease. He looks like shitty POV porn, on his knees like this, but it's somehow so genuine - the content noise Luke makes as Marco's cock drags across his tongue, the gentle pressure of his fingers on Marco's hip - that it's way better than any terrible amateur vid could be.

Marco warns him when he's about to come, but Luke doesn't pull off in time, just lets Marco come in his mouth before backing away so the last few shots get him in the face. He makes a face while Marco's catching his breath, grimacing a little at the taste while he swallows and then coughs, a surprisingly dainty sound for someone his size.

"Jesus," Marco says, hands shaky as he tucks his dick back into his shorts, "you didn't have to do that. Coulda just spat it out."

"Nah, it's less messy this way," Luke says. His voice is shredded, like he's been yelling all game. He goes kinda cross-eyed, trying to look at his own nose. "Well, a little less messy," he amends.

Marco reaches down to thumb at the come lying on the sharp cut of his cheekbone, smearing it along the high ridge of it. It's fucking weird, but Luke doesn't call him out on it or anything, just makes a soft sound a little like a sigh, leaning into Marco’s hand. He lingers for a moment, before pulling away and ducking his head so he can strip off the blue undershirt and scrub the come off his face.

“Shit, man, I gotta shower," Luke says, bracing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up with a grunt, nowhere near as graceful getting up as he was going down.

“Feeling our age now, are we?” Marco asks, offering him a hand. Luke casually bats it away as he unfolds himself from his stance on his knees.

“No way,” he says, cracking his back with a pop that probably feels incredibly satisfying but makes Marco's own vertebrae twinge in sympathy at the sound, “just had to catch _you_ all night.” He's still in his uniform pants, just shirtless now, jersey tossed god knows where and the undershirt crumpled in one hand. If Luke's hard in his cup, he can't tell, but it doesn't seem like he is, adjusting himself with the same casual motion basically every player's been caught doing on camera at least once.

Marco’s eyes rove over Luke’s bare chest - looking’s free, he reasons, and Luke isn’t complaining. Even though it’s still early in the season, Luke’s tawny all over, not even a trace of tan lines starting to form. His gaze settles on the bruises, jumping from one on the inside of his right arm— “hit by pitch,” Luke offers, tracking Marco’s line of sight— to one on the side of his ribs, large and blotchy and vaguely baseball-shaped. “Foul tip,” Luke says. It’s ugly and purple, blurry at the edges. Marco reaches out, laying a hand over it - his palm almost covers up the harshest of it, a smear of sickly yellow-green peeking out from underneath his fingers. Luke’s inhale tears sharply over his teeth, but he doesn’t pull away from the touch, looking down at Marco's hand on his ribs. It’s intimate, somehow even more so than when his dick was in Luke’s mouth. He feels oddly adrift, like he doesn't know where the balance between them is anymore.

Luke shifts away before Marco can get himself too shaken up over this. He's examining the bruise on his ribs himself now, gingerly pressing a finger where it turns from purple to yellow, hissing as he does.

"Don't do that," Marco says, reaching out to pull his hand away, "you're just gonna make it worse." There's athletic tape residue under his hand, tacky on Luke's wrist where his hand's wrapped around it, catching on the pads of his fingers. "You want some ice for that?"

Luke looks at him, then, straight in the eye, for the first time since Marco came on his face five minutes ago. He still doesn't know where the balance between them should be, but Luke, looking for something in his face, seems to.

"No," he says at last, shifting his wrist out of Marco's grasp, "it's too old for ice. I'll put a heat pack or something on it on the plane." It feels like he's answering a completely different question, but sometimes Luke is too many steps ahead of Marco, and sometimes Marco just can't catch up. It just figures that it'd be the same off the field as it is on the mound; all he can do is trust Luke and hope it'll all work out.

"If you're sure," Marco says. Luke just looks at him before leaning down, unceremonious, pressing his lips to the corner of Marco's mouth, uncoordinated and off-center.

He pulls away a second later, working his jaw, before Marco can react; before he can decide whether or not he would've pushed Luke away first or kissed him back. His gaze is still looking for something in Marco's expression.

"Hey, uh, what I said earlier," Marco says, "Do you? Do this with the others?" It's seriously none of his business, and he probably won't like the answer, but he can't help but ask.

Something about Luke's eyes - that fucking intense stare - relaxes. "Told you," he says, tilting his head, the same little head toss he does in the dugout when he’s pleased about something, "just the ones I like." He doesn't spell it out, but Marco gets it; he also gets that Luke's telling him to back off, so he does.

He reaches out instead - doesn’t hesitate - to shove Luke lightly on the hip. "C'mon, let's get out of here," he says. "We've got a plane to catch."

"Yeah, okay," Luke says. And then, "Don't get too down on yourself, yeah?" Marco just snorts - it's not like he's new to this - and Luke laughs too, mostly at himself; he seems so much younger like this, without the super-serious look he has on for games or the awkward half-smile he wears in the dugout, on the edges of a team that he still doesn't know that well.

“Hey, we’ll get ‘em next time, stud,” Luke says. The way he talks makes everything he says so sincere that even here, like this, tucked in a corner of an empty clubhouse, with his voice wrecked by sucking cock, Marco can’t help but believe him.

“Next time,” Marco agrees, the words coming easily. "Now go fucking shower."

He feels lighter inside already.

**Author's Note:**

> i gave myself a massive luke maile problem, and this...somehow happened.
> 
> this...took a really weird turn near the end - it was legit just supposed to be ‘no homo: the blowjob: the fic’ but somehow it become 2k of emotional insecurity thinly disguised under innuendos about catching. oops. i'm still not entirely happy about it, but i can't bring myself to pick at it any longer so i'm just gonna slam dunk it here and ~let it go~.
> 
> [tumblr](http://ewidentnie.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingsglaives)


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